


The Case of John Watson and the Freudian Slip

by Naicele



Series: A Study in Psychology [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a particularly taxing case John finds himself in a predicament and Sherlock, being his normal rational self, is prepared to simply “fix” the situation in order to move on with case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of John Watson and the Freudian Slip

“John, are you even listening to me?” Watson was pulled abruptly awake as Holmes’s hand landed on his shoulder. He looked around the dark sitting room and realized that he must have fallen asleep for a second.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m listening”

“Good, we are close now John, I can feel it,” Holmes commenced his restless pacing. “It is all connected, the Labrador, the murders and the missing vase. Somewhere in this mess John lie the answers.” He reached the stone mantle, spun around on his heels and walked briskly back towards Watson’s armchair; hands on his back.

John rose, walked into the kitchen and refilled his cup with some stagnant coffee left in the pot; he was going to need it.

It has been going on for almost a week now, the case. At every turn it seemed to grow more complicated and make less sense. Between this and his work at the clinic there were simply no time for such mundane things as sleep, so by now he was exhausted. Sherlock looked bright awake as always, his clothes and hair in perfect order, the man never needed to relax, nevertheless sleep or eat; he was inhuman in that sense.

John looked over the brim of his mug as the other man paced back and forth, each step exactly and perfectly measured. He was mumbling to himself, repeating the facts over and over hoping to discover the connection that in the end would lead them to the killer.

Grimacing at the taste of the cold coffee John nevertheless gulped it all down; at least the foul taste brought him back to full consciousness. He realized how tense and tired his body was. He longed for a run to stretch his muscles and a hot bath to remove the stiffness in his knee.

Taking a deep breath he felt the caffeine rush through him, the doctor in him narrated the path the central stimulant took through his body. His hearth started to beat faster, the receptors for adenosine blocked, waking him up, and his breathing and blood pressure increased as the drug hit his system in full. As blood rushed through his veins he could feel certain parts of his body reacting more than were perhaps necessary. He needed… well he was a doctor and he understood his body, he knew exactly what it needed right now besides rest.

He had tried during one rare moment yesterday as he was having a shower when he had been alone for the first time since they had found the body; a week ago. At that precise moment Sherlock had returned home and insisted on discussing a new lead in the case through the bathroom door, it had broken his concentration so to speak. It had been impossible to relax again knowing that his flat mate’s lean figure was leaning on the door.

John tried with his mind to will the blood away by thinking of football but for some reason that led to locker rooms which led to showers and then he was back where he had started.

“John, you are clearly not listening to me,” Holmes had stopped his pacing and looked at him annoyingly.

“No sorry I’m not Sherlock, you were saying?”

“Never mind the case. I am sure you have more important things on your mind. Incredible scientific discoveries that will change the fate of modern medicine forever and win you the Nobel price. We could use a new rug if that happens, that experiment with limestone seemed to have brought this one past redemption.” Sherlock gave him his, I am a misunderstood genius look, which reeked of reprehension.

“Pray tell me what wonders of mystery and imagination you are mussing over instead of helping me save these peoples’ lives?” John couldn’t stop himself blushing, he coughed and turned his head to the side, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice.

“Nothing, nothing at all, not showers.”

“Showers? You are rambling John, do you have a fewer?” In one quick stride Sherlock’s hand was on his forehead, cool and smooth. Watson reflexively tried to pull back from his touch but Holmes grabbed his arm and held him firmly in place with a strength that never stopped surprising John.

“Your breathing is labored, you heartbeat increased. Much more than the caffeine should have caused and you are warm, I would say half a degree over your normal body temperature, not fever but still hot.”

John felt his blush increase in intensity by a thousand. He shook his head and tried to calm down, he was an adult and this was ridiculous. It was a perfectly natural reaction for a man in his situation; it was nothing to be ashamed of.

“I thought I was the doctor here Sherlock, I think I would know if I had a fever.” He tried to sound casual and straightened his back to appear more confident, when he became acutely aware of his friend’s hand tightly circling his upper arm. The heat through the fabric of his shirt suddenly seemed more intense than before. Involuntarily his breath quickened.

“There seem to be something wrong with you my friend, but I cannot place it.” Sherlock put a finger under John’s chin and tilted his head slightly upwards. “I believe your pupils are dilated. I would have said tetrahydrocannabinol if it wasn’t for the fact that you smell of soap and not marijuana.”

_This is not happening to me_ was all John’s confused brain could tell him as Sherlock started into his eyes. He tried to look away but only succeeded in focusing on his lips instead which only made things worse. Holmes’s breath smelled fresh, like mint. His probably smelled like old coffee, he should have brushed his teeth before he…

He reeled back when he realized where his thoughts were taking him, or would have if Sherlock had not been holding him in place, instead only his head moved, slamming into the wall behind him.

He blinked away the stars and gave up as Sherlock looked at him worryingly.

“There is nothing wrong with me, my body is just trying to tell me I need some rest and some, eh, private time. A perfectly natural thing.” Even to himself, the last sounded somewhat strained.

“Private time?” Sherlock said, intrigued.

“Oh bloody hell Sherlock don’t make me spell it out for you, I need to go out, meet some girls, have some fun.” John said, desperation creeping up on him. He needed to move away from Sherlock, to sit down in his chair and think of gardening, banking or Margaret Thatcher. Sherlock was standing too close, he could feel the heat from his body in the air and it was doing him nothing good. God what was wrong with him.

“Ah, you mean your body is in need of release, just say so John, it is a perfectly natural reaction,” Holmes replied. John thought he would start crying like a baby any second if this nightmare didn’t end soon; this was not a discussion he wanted to have with Sherlock, or anyone else.

Sherlock shook his head: “I am sorry John, there is simply no time for that sort of thing right now. We are close to a solution and I need your help to figure this out. In the morning the vase leaves for Santiago and then it will be too late.”

“I know Sherlock. I am not saying I need to go out right this second, just at some point in the near future.” John started to relax, maybe the ordeal was almost over and he could go hide under his bed and let shame eat him up for the rest of his life.

“No good John, I need you clearheaded and alert now, not at some point in the near future.”

“Not everyone has the sort of control over their bodies as you Sherlock.” Watson answered with just a tiny bit of cynicism in his voice.

“No, apparently not,” was Sherlock’s reply. He looked at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. John tried to push further into the wall to increase the distance between them, when had Sherlock backed him into the wall anyway? He froze when he suddenly felt a hand gently at the front of his trousers, his mouth fell open in shock and he stared blankly in front of him as Sherlock’s hand slowly stared to caress his already afflicted state.

“Sher..” He coughed and tried again: “Sherlock, what are you doing.” His voice almost a whisper.

“It makes perfect sense John, you obviously won´t do anything yourself or you would have already. This way we can clear your head and get back to the case. I have done the calculations already; this is the fastest, most rational solution.” He sounded perfectly calm, logical and cool even though it was absolute madness.

John swallowed. “But I don’t want to, you can’t,” he never finished as his treacherous body was obviously reacting gladly to the slow, intense rub.

Sherlock let go of his arm and began undoing his belt and buttons. John looked helplessly on, trapped in his own body, as Sherlock uncovered him, pushing cloth to the side, away and down. He thought he was going to choke as long, delicate, white fingers closed around him and a quiet moan escaped his lips, even though he pressed them together so hard it hurt, as Sherlock slowly started to stroke him up and down, his movement confident and deft.

John’s knees were trying to give in and he had to steady himself with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His breathing was coming heavily and he gave up trying to be quiet as his body, so desperate for attention willingly followed where Sherlock led.

The rhythm slowly increased, each stroke just a tiny bit harder and faster than the previous one. Unable to control himself John pushed his hips forward into Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock left hand gently painted circles over his stomach under his shirt, playing over his hipbones and further back towards the small of his back before coming back to his stomach.

John couldn’t take his eyes away from Sherlock’s hands; seeing his hands on him was driving him mad. Sherlock rubbed his thumb gently over the head every time he neared the tip, before stroking him all the way to the root. John felt each stroke as it brought him closer to the edge, he tried to fight it. He didn’t want it to end this fast but it was to no avail.

The hand he held on Sherlock’s shoulder sneaked its way up into his hair as John pulled his head forward so their foreheads were resting against each other. They did not look at each other but rather down, at Sherlock’s hands moving over John’s body. John gave up all pretence at control and let himself be swept away, load moans escaping as a wave of intense heat hit him forcing his pelvis and stomach muscles to clench as he came hard splashing over Sherlock’s hand.

It felt like hours before he could calm his breathing down and he had to close his eyes to stop the world from spinning. Sherlock gave him time and when his breathing was back to normal untangled himself from John’s hold. He pulled out a handkerchief and proceeded to calmly wipe his hand before offering it to John.

“Now that’s taken care of let’s get down to business.” He turned away, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and went right back to his pacing. For him probably nothing strange had happened. John stood dumbfounded for a second before pure survival instinct kicked in and he wiped himself and did the best he could with his rumpled clothing.

When John didn’t answer Sherlock continued, “The dog John. Tell me about the dog”

“It is a bloody dog Sherlock, just a normal smelling, slightly scruffy dog.” He was surprised to hear that his own voice could be so calm when he felt like a whirlwind was trying to remodel his insides. He had a sinking feeling when he looked at Sherlock’s slim but powerful figure that things might just have gotten infinitely more complicated between him and his roommate.

“Quite insightful John but you still missed all the relevant points.” _Not like you then,_ thought John, stomach fluttering, as he observed Sherlock’s long fingers play in the air to a tune only he could hear, his forehead slightly creased in concentration as he began to explain just what it was that he had missed.

John nodded absently as he studied Sherlock’ profile. _Just like you then Sherlock._

_  
_

_-The End-_

**Author's Note:**

> A Freudian slip of the tongue is a concept in psychology. It means that a person intends to say something, but accidentally says something else. These slips are often considered to be about repressed desire either sexual or otherwise socially inappropriate.


End file.
